


Human Touch

by Fata_Morgana



Series: Crested Butte [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:10:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fata_Morgana/pseuds/Fata_Morgana
Summary: Lola’s cafe is located on the corner between 2nd avenue and Gothic street and, according to local folklore, it has been in the same spot, in one way or another, since the first settlers arrived in Crested Butte.Lola’s it’s a town’s institution providing a staple of strong coffee, earthy breakfasts and, according to the most recent review on tripadvisor, the best slice of blueberry pie this side of the Rockies.Phil's family has owned Lola's for almost a hundred years and it is part of the landscape just as much as the town church, and the old mountain trail up the Red Lady.Phil lives a quiet, secluded life, but everything starts to change when a couple of handsome strangers come to town and open "Pop tarts and Cherry Flips" just at the end of the road from Lola's.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stepantrofimovic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/gifts).



Lola’s cafe is located on the corner between 2nd avenue and Gothic street and, according to local folklore, it has been in the same spot, in one way or another, since the first settlers arrived in Crested Butte.  
Lola’s it’s a town’s institution providing a staple of strong coffee, earthy breakfasts and, according to the most recent review on tripadvisor, the best slice of blueberry pie this side of the Rockies.  
Phil’s family has owned Lola’s for the past ninety-five years and Phil has lived through the dark times in the sixties and seventies, when himself and the kids of the town had to travel to Gunnison to go to school and jobs were not just scarce, but non existent for many of the families that refused to leave. 

He has always known that he was lucky his family owned Lola’s, but those dark years made it even clearer to him, and made his love for the resilient folks in the town, even stronger.  
Through the years Phil’s family has helped more than one of those families, not only providing work, even when work was scarce, but providing a place where, no question asked, a hot cup of coffee was served and refuge from cold, loneliness and hardship was given.

Phil knows everyone and everyone knows Phil. 

Lola’s is old fashion wooden and linoleum interior, a bright slice of old and new meshed together by years of trading, with chipped mugs and vintage Captain America’s posters on the wall.  
Lola is not flashy, you cannot buy a no foam, three pumps pumpkin spice hemp latte at Lola’s, there are no brown rice and avocado bowls on the menu, and that’s what most of the local likes, and what most of the tourists who comes to Crested Butte to ski, or snowboard find “utterly charming”.

Phil doesn’t want to change it, and not just because this is what he has known all his life, but because this is his town history. His little cafe is woven among the threads of many lives who have endured hardship and the bruising beauty of the mountains.  
He has tried to explain it to Melinda once, but she has just shaken her head fondly and muttered “Almost fifty and you are still a hopeless romantic.” Phil doesn’t think he is a romantic, but it is true, he is hopelessly in love with this corner of the world. 

He had enlisted in the Rangers when he was barely eighteen and had traveled all over the world, met all kind of people, including Melinda, who had decided to come back with him after many adventures and a new found desire for anonymity and peace. He had loved travelling, he had loved the challenges, and the discovery that there was so much possibility hidden within himself, but in the end, Crested Butte, Lola’s, is where he belongs, where his folks are buried, where he needed to come back to in order to be who he is. 

Lola’s opens everyday at five am, and Phil has already a cup of black coffee ready and a grilled cheese sandwich when the bell on the door jingles and Mack walks in, still clipping his overall, his hands permanently stained with grease. 

“Morning Phil.”

“Morning Mack, how are you doing today?”

This is how all of their mornings start, and Phil could set his clock on Mack’s comings and goings. He is busy writing the soup of the day on the board, but he knows that Mack has already drank half of his cup and he is not expecting any reply until the sandwich is all but gone, so he is surprised when Mack tells him that Mr Valenbeck has finally decided to sell his shop and he is moving to Colorado Springs. 

This is distressing to Phil on many different levels. 

Mr Valenbeck is an old family friend, and Phil has fond memories of buying baits in the summer to go fishing, and snow boots at the beginning of every winter, and him leaving, is another piece of the old town fading away.  
Mack says that the store has been sold, not simply closed, and that means that someone else is taking over, and God knows what manner of new-fangled shop they are going to open. 

Also, Mack all but gossiped about what is happening in town, something that has never happened before in all the years they have known one another.

Those are all bad signs.  
Horrible, horrible signs. 

“Jesus Phil. Stop thinking, I can hear you stressing from the kitchen.”

Melinda, her hands still white with flour, emerges from the kitchen, her hair in a neat braid, and her steely eyes, trained on Mack. 

“Alphonso, what have I told you about Phil’s delicate sensibilities?”

Melinda is the only one in all Crested Butte to call Mack, Alphonso, and the only one he has never threatened with physical harm for doing so.

“You know Phil thinks that every new thing will tamper with the original spirit of this crap-hole”

Phil finishes writing on the board before he steps down carefully and turns to regards both of his friends. 

“You knew?”

Melinda’s eye-roll can be seen two towns over, but her voice is fond, and she squeezes his bicep gently.

“Phil, everybody knows. If you had the decency to have a life outside this cafe, you would know too.”

Phil has a life. A very quiet life, with set hours, the cafe and a lot of running with his dogs. It’s a fulfilling life. A life he has worked hard to achieve, a life that makes his thoughts quiet and the memories of the past less sharp. 

“Thank you for the advice, Lin, now can you please go and finish those pies? You promised me gooseberries and some strawberry ones for Mrs Rogers’. Steve will be here to collect them around noon, you know they want them for the party they are throwing for Steve’s army buddy who’s coming back from Iraq.”

Melinda’s arched eyebrow conveys more contempt than many words could, but she steps back into the kitchen, knowing full well that Phil will not escape her attempts to make him leave not just the cafe, but his home. She loves him dearly, in a way that she had never expected, especially considering all the things they have seen and shared through their years in the Rangers, but love him she does, and it hurts to see him give everything away to just keep the cafe and the town safe and preserved like a fly in amber. She knows that Phil’s heart is too big to be constricted inside such small confines. 

Mack has been silently finishing his grilled cheese and, at exactly five fifteen am he pays for it and makes his way to the door, only to stop and turn to look at Phil with kind, dark eyes. 

“They’re saying it’s gonna be some sort of snowboarding bar… thing. You know, still selling shoes and equipment and stuff, but also serving drinks and food… I mean nothing like you do… just some stuff for those city folks… They said a couple from New York bought it… I’m sure you got nothing to worry about. Maybe it’s even going to be good for the town, you know bring some more business for everybody.”

Phil is not sure, but Mack looks so earnest that he cannot help but smile and replies “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. Have a great day, and if you come by closing time, I’ll have a slice of gooseberry pie saved for you, I know it’s Leo’s favorite.”

By midday the steady stream of regulars have been recounting the story of the new shop in so many different ways that Phil is not even sure that the shop will open. The weirdest of the stories comes from Dr Simmons’ office, where her nurse, Daisy, is convinced that it’s going to be a high tech bar, and the guy who bought it, is none other than Tony Stark, who would have chosen Crested Butte as his new secret retreat, and Phil would laugh if he had not had the misfortune of meeting Mr Stark when he was still working for the Rangers. Steve comes at twelve to collect the pies and bursts Daisy’s bubble by reporting the news of a couple of people unloading staff from a large van just behind the store. He had stopped to say hi and they had seemed very friendly. Phil knows that Steve tends to believe the best in everyone, so it’s not a 100% reliable information, but at least they weren’t rude, he is going to give them the benefit of the doubt. 

“Yeah, they were alright… The guy, Clint… He was real friendly. The woman was, well… I do not want to objectify her, but… she was beautiful. Phil, one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She reminded me of one of those Madonnas from the Pre-Raphaelite paintings…” 

Phil smiles at Steve, once again marveling at how war has not paved cynicism over Steve’s heart. How, among all the loss and cruelty he has lived through, he is still able to see beauty.  
Others have not been so lucky.

Steve pays for the pies and reminds Phil to come over and meet Sam when he has the time, Phil promises and then all his thoughts about war, Steve and mysterious, beautiful women get out of head with the lunch rush. 

It takes two week before Phil meets the owners of the new shop, he doesn’t actively avoid them, but he makes no effort to introduce himself or try to find out what their plans are. The small town is rife with gossip and, according to many of his customers the newcomers are either from New York or Chicago, they are married, or brother and sister, are in witness protection, are ex spies and so on. It certainly makes for interestingly speculative conversations, but he is not interested. Melinda tells him that he is fast approaching unabomber levels of isolation, but he ignores her. He knows she means well, but his life has been one of careful routine for the past ten years since he has left the Rangers, and this disruption it's hard to process, and it’s grating at an old wound that he had thought healed a long time ago.

The woman comes in on a Tuesday evening just before the dinner rush and sits by the counter, beautiful and regal even in overall and messy hair. She is truly striking and Phil wonders why someone like her has chosen to come to Crested Butte. Maybe Daisy’s theories are not as crazy as he thought. 

She is still a customer though and Phil’s suspicions will have to wait. He hands her a menu with a smile and asks her:

“Welcome to Lola’s, what can I get you?”

She takes the menu and he notices her calloused hands, the nicks and cuts that speak of working hard, and something inside him softens. Whoever she is, she is not a Madonna, nor a pampered East Coaster, and Phil can appreciate hard work.  
She regards him with sharp, green eyes and asks for coffee and a slice of blueberry pie, her voice smoky rough, accentless.  
He rings the order and serves a couple of other regulars and then brings her a fresh slice of Melinda’s best pie and a refill of coffee. He doesn’t ask questions, as, by rule, he always waits for the customer to engage in conversation, but she simply eats her pie and sips at the coffee slowly, bright and quiet in the rapidly filling diner.  
He has almost forgotten about her among the last rush of orders when the door’s bell rings again and he lifts his eyes, expecting to see one of his regulars, a smile already on his face, when a stranger man walks in, hair speckled with blue paint, face bright with cold air and the most beautiful eyes Phil has ever seen.

“Tasha! What the hell? I thought you had gone to get more paint!”

The stranger makes a beeline for the woman and Phil, suddenly, really hopes they are not married. It’s a knee jerk reaction that catches him by surprise, one he ruthlessly squashes down. 

The woman, Tasha, seems completely unruffled by the outburst and pats the seat beside her.

“Sit down, have some pie.”

“Tasha… we got so much to do…”

She daintily eats another piece of pie and then regards the man with a look that reminds Phil of Melinda during their days in the Rangers, hyper focused and deadly.

“And if I didn’t take a break I was going to use a paint brush to disembowel you, so… you see? I thought pie was a better option. Also, you need to see people, the people in this town, or they will continue to think of you as someone in witness protection.”

Daisy, sitting at her usual booth, does a double take and almost spits out her coffee. Phil can’t help but smile at her, and at the general silliness of a small town gossip mill. He brings the coffee over to the couple and, despise his own rule to never step in uninvited, he finds himself saying:

“You mean we were all wrong and you guys are not in witness protection? Do you at least work for Tony Stark?”

Phil can feel Daisy shooting daggers at him, and he will pay for this later, but right now he does not care. Maybe is the fact that the couple is nothing like he had imagined them to be, or maybe Melinda’s words about being more open have finally sank in, but he is man enough to admit that, mostly, is due to the man’s eyes and the way he is looking at him. 

The man’s smile makes his eyes shine, revealing a fanning of fine lines around them, and Phil knows that he will have to be very careful around him. 

“No, I am afraid not. We’d definitely have more money to sort out the shop if that was the case.” 

The man’s laughter is a pleasant baritone that makes several of the patrons look in his direction with even less subtlety than before. He extends his hand towards Phil, and says “I’m Clint Barton and this my partner in crime… figuratively, you know, no witness protection crime… Anyway she’s Natasha Romanov, it’s nice to meet you…”

“Philip Coulson… Phil. Nice to meet you both. Welcome to Crested Butte.”

Clint’s handshake is firm, his fingers long and scarred by manual labour, but his callouses are familiar to Phil, this is a man who has handed weapons on a regular basis and Phil’s hackles raise again. He chides himself for having let a pair of pretty eyes distract him, but he maintains his pleasant smile and shakes Clint’s hand in return playing the polite host. 

“I hope you guys will like it here, we’re no Colorado Spring, but we have a better skiing and snowboarding resort, and…”

Daisy’s curiosity has finally gotten the better of her and she pipes up, sitting beside Clint. “And we got a music festival, bike week, the film festival.. I mean it’s not Sundance but still. And we got the wildflower festival! You’ll love that….”

Clint smiles at her enthusiasm, and even Natasha seems to thaw just a little. From then on is a free for all of the town'so people who introduce themselves, ask questions, and gather as much information as they can to talk about during the long winter months. Clint and Natasha end up staying until closing time, but Phil is busy trying to gather information of his own, and maybe Clint and Natasha are not in witness protection, but there is more than meet the eyes and Phil is not sure what to do about it. 

At the end of the day Melinda turns off the kitchen lights and she comes out to find Phil cleaning the same spot on the counter over and over.

“Jesus, I could hear you thinking from inside the kitchen… You’re going to give yourself an aneurysm. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Never bullshit a bullshitter. Spill.”

Phil slaps the rag on his shoulder and sits by the counter and tells Melinda his suspicions. He leaves out the sudden jolt of want he had felt when he had met Clint’s eyes, but he is pretty sure that, somehow, she will figure that out too. 

“I don’t know, Lin… They are odd… Why would a woman like that, someone who looks like a supermodel comes to Crested Butte? And his hands…”

She smirks at him, and he knows he has, somehow, given himself away.

“His hands? Do you want them all over your quivering body?”

He hates that they are friends sometime. She knows him so well it’s almost as if she has a password to his head.

“My body never quivers.”

She laughs at him and shakes her head. “Maybe it should, I am pretty sure it hasn’t quivered in a long time.”

“Jesus Christ, why am I your friend again?”

“Because I am fabulous and I speak the truth. Also, stop being fucking paranoid. Plenty of people handle firearms, hell 95% of the folks around here have more than one. He is not military, even you can see that, and the woman? Stone cold fox, for sure. But so am I, and I did move to this place didn’t I?”

They lock up and Melinda walks the short distance to her house. Phil drives home, head filled with ideas and a pair of iridescent eyes. At home Panna and Nutella are waiting for him, eager to go for a long run; he lives isolated enough that he can leave them off the leash and they run side by side, twisting through the mountain trails, sniffing through the undergrowth, chasing small animals in the dusk light. He returns home pleasantly tired and he manages to fall into a deep sleep, his dogs snoring softly at the bottom of the bed. If he dreams of scarred hands and beautiful eyes, the dreams are forgotten when he wakes up. 

After the encounter at Lola’s the town gossip mill goes into overdrive with many of the town folks happily accepting Clint and Natasha as perfectly lovely, and the other half getting even weirder in its conjectures, One day they are spies, one days they are terrorists, assassins, escaped convicts and so on. Phil listens to everyone without commenting and serves pies and coffee to Natasha, who has taken up the habit to show up every day at five, always quiet. Always alone. 

Two weeks after meeting Clint for the first time, Daisy comes running into the diner, waving a piece of paper in her hands, a huge smile splitting her young face. She slaps the paper on the counter and shoves it at Phil, whispering conspiratorially. 

“I found them. It took a mighty long time because, jeesh they are both old and it was the eighties, and the archives at the library suck…. But I found them.”

The print out is from an old newspaper and the faded black and white title reads “Olympic gold winner and ice skater extraordinaire, Russian Natalia Romanova defects to the West with the help of Olympic hopeful, bi-athlete Clinton Francis Barton.”

Daisy can barely sit still, but Phil cannot take his eyes off the grainy picture under the headline, Clint jutting his chin at the camera, holding hands with a wisp of girl with the determination of a wolverine defending its cubs.  
He feels he is invading a private moment, even if it was immortalised in paper, and he has a vague memory of the scandal that had followed, the USSR federation requesting Clint to be removed from the US team, the media circus around Natasha’s defection and pages upon pages of speculation about Clint and the possibility that Natasha was a double agent. The hu-ha had died down after a few months, but neither of them had ever competed again. 

He folds the paper and slips it in his apron, serves Daisy her BLT and asks her:

“Have you told anyone?”

“No. I… just you. You think I made a mistake right? I should have left it alone, isn’t it?”

She looks suddenly so very young and, once again, Phil feels for her, feels for her forced independence, for her loneliness and her huge heart. He wishes he was better equipped at being kind, better equipped at comforting her, guiding her. He does his best by her and hopes that, somehow it will be enough. 

“No, you were curious, it’s normal. But, Daisy. This is their past, theirs to keep a secret if they want, or theirs to tell. I think it would be for the best if we kept this between the two of us. Do you agree?”

She breaks a fry in three small pieces and looks at her plate intently before looking up. “Yeah, you’re right. Some people around here are so dumb they’d probably think they’re working for the KGB.”

Phil smiles at her, but he feels troubled. If she found out, sooner or later someone else will too and Phil doesn’t want them to be blindsided. It’s true that Phil barely knows them, but he has been on the other side of being misunderstood and marginalised for something he had no control over, and he doesn’t want them to feel the same. He may be weary of the changes they are going to bring to Crested Butte, but they deserve a second chance like everyone else. 

After closing, instead of driving back home, he walks to the new shop. The work is almost complete and the sign above the entrance reads “Pop Tarts and Cherry Flips” in bright, bold letters. Light is still seeping from under the closed shutter and Phil knocks a couple of time, hoping to be heard above the low bass thumping coming from inside.

“We’re not open yet! Come back in a week… hopefully”

Phil’s stomach clenches with something akin to longing in hearing Clint’s voice again, and maybe Melinda was right, it has been too long since his last “quivering”, but this is not the place or the time for it. Not to mention the presence of an impossibly beautiful woman for whom Clint had not hesitated throwing away his career for.

“It’s Phil… Phil Coulson from Lola’s Diner. I was wondering if we could talk. Just few minutes, I won’t take too much of your time.”

The roller shutter is pulled up quickly and, framed by a halo of bright light, Phil finds himself face to face with Clint and, apart from his stupid libido which has seemingly decided to come back to him in full adolescent strength, and makes him want to do an array of stupid things, he is also stunned into silence by how the shop looks on the inside. He was expecting something ultra modern and sleek, all gleaming surfaces and cold colours, but Clint has opted to keep many of the old features: the exposed beams, the old wooden floor, albeit polished and varnished anew, even the old wooden stove, returned to a burnished copper shine. It looks cosy, the coffee bar nestled in a corner, wooden benches along a table, and rows and rows of shelves, which will be filled with winter supplies, skis, boards and skates. Phil didn’t want to like it, but, just like its owner, “Pop Tarts and Cherry Flips”, has a hidden charm, something warm and enticing. 

When Phil finally realises that he has been silent for too long, Clint is looking at him with a mix of amusement and worry. “Please tell me you like it Phil, because if the silence is because you think this looks like shit I am just gonna throw myself under a bus.”

“The next bus is not due until seven forty-five am, you’re gonna have to wait a while.” Phil deadpans. 

Clint’s laughter is a happy bark that shakes his shoulders, and gives Phil’s stomach another painful twist. 

“Well, Phil Coulson you sure know how to welcome a fella into a new town. Fabulous pies, late evening visits to trash my new place and bus timetables.”

“I am part of the welcome committee after all. I take my role very seriously, I am glad you appreciate.”

Clint looks at him again, eyes framed by an impossibly charming net of fine lines, and Phil realises that he has been flirting. Badly yes, but to him, this is tantamount to asking the guy out, and the weird thing is, that it had felt completely natural, as if Clint had been in his life for the longest time. 

“Oh I appreciate it… I do.”

And it would be so easy to keep this up, to, clearly, flirt with this gorgeous man who is apparently flirting back, but there are so many reasons why this is a bad idea, and one of those reasons is folded in the back pocket of his jeans. 

Clint turns the radio off and suddenly the quiet is interrupted only by the low hum of the exposed light bulb, and the familiarity of the shop is gone, replaced by the newness of this man in front of him. By the question mark of his beauty and Phil’s sudden attraction.

Phil’s words, when they come, are awkward in their sincerity. 

“I like it. I like the shop. Very much. I didn’t think I was going to, I thought it was going to be… different. Not like this. You kept its old soul. It’s a good thing.”

Clint seemed more at ease with the light banter, than he is with sincere praise and he busies himself with something behind the bar before emerging with two beers.

“To celebrate the fact that I passed my first inspection.”

Phil colours slightly, but accepts the beer and sits on the edge of the long bench. 

“This was not an inspection, I am sorry if it looked like I was checking on you. I just had something to say to you. Well both of you, but you can tell Ms Romanov. But, apart from that, I really meant it when I said I like it here, it’s still Crested Butte, but it’s yours too. “

“Mine, Tasha’s and the bank.”

“Are you ever serious?”

Clint smiles behind his beer and says “Not if I can help it.” 

Phil takes another pull of his beer and then takes out the print out from the back pocket of his jeans. He smooths the creased corners, trying to gather the right words, but before he can say anything, Clint’s eyes zero on the smudged black headline and his posture shifts immediately from casually flirty to tense and guarded. 

“So, this was not an inspection? What was it then? A way to see if you could gather more information? Jesus Christ, this is such shit timing, Phil. It has been twenty years can people please stop being assholes about it?”

Clint rubs a hand over his tired face, his shoulders tense, the vibrant baritone of his voice shaking with rage.

“I think you need to leave, Phil.” Clint is standing by the entrance, holding the door open.

“Nobody knows, Clint. No one but Daisy and I. She is… curious, young, with a head full of big ideas. She did not mean to spy on you, or dig up things from your past. She will not say a thing, and neither will I. You can trust me.”

Clint’s laughter this time twists Phil’s stomach with its bitterness, eyes sharpened by suspicion, all levity gone.

“Sure thing, Mr Righteous. You think I care about people knowing? We never hid, we never stopped being who we are, just as everybody else has not stopped looking down on us for what we did, for what they thought we were going to do. Spy, traitor of your country, commie-lover, fag, I have heard it all before. I just don’t give a fuck about it anymore. You can keep your trust and this town for all I care. We are here because of a business opportunity and low real estate costs, we don’t give a royal fuck about your precious town.”

Phil wants to say something else, wants to explain that this was not an attack, that it was not something he thought he could use against Clint and Natasha, but he knows when words will not be welcomed, when any attempt at explaining will be rejected.  
He puts the print out on the table and leaves the shop quietly. 

After that night Natasha stops coming for coffee and the light spilling from the shop's shuttered door it's on late at night, and it still burns early in the morning when Phil drives back into town.  
The grand opening of “Pop Tarts and Cherry Flips”, happens just a week later and all of the town flocks to see what the newcomers have done. The shop’s opening is a success, and even the more skeptical of the residents agree that the shop will benefit the town, increasing tourists trade and encouraging more people to chose Crested Butte. Phil delivers food for the buffet and is offered a glass of champagne by Natasha, but declines when he catches Clint’s eyes across the room and sees that the hurt is still fresh.

“Congratulations on the shop, Ms Romanov. It’s a great place.”

She thanks him politely, but he doesn’t miss the look she gives Clint, something private that he cannot translate. He makes his way out and drives back home.  
Winter is fast approaching and Panna and Nutella can smell the cold moving its way down the mountain. Phil runs with them until his lungs burns and the air is tinted with the first blue notes of evening. He sits on a boulder and watches the valley below, the darkness switching off the profiles of buildings, stretching long fingers of cobalt on the top of the Red Lady. 

He loves this place with all his heart. He loves its beauty, the resilient nature of its people, the purity of snow in winter and the sharp heat in summer, the flowers buzzing with insects and resonating with voices.  
He loves it and will always love it, but there is a well of loneliness that has been burrowing deeper inside him, and that, without meaning to, Clint has shined a light upon, making Phil fully aware of it, of its perimeter, of how far back it stretches, of how long Phil has been feeding it.  
Panna puts her muzzle on his knee, her liquid brown eyes almost imploring. He scratches behind her ear and her tail swings in a wild arc for the simple of joy of being touched, loved. It only takes few seconds for Nutella to join her and in no time he has a lapful of dogs clamoring for belly rubs. They end up lying on the soft earth until he can see the first stars burning in the sky.

“Come on, you spoiled things. Let’s go home.”

At home he cooks, feeds the dogs, reads a little and goes to bed at his usual time, but this time morning comes with the blurry recollection of a dream where he wasn’t alone. 

And it hurts. 

Life, inevitably, goes on.

Macks comes in the morning for his breakfast, Melinda complains that he is turning into a hermit, but she has the sense not to mention why “the hottie with the arms” is not coming to Lola’s to makes Phil quiver, and Daisy still talks a mile a minute trying to figure out things and herself.  
This is what Phil knows and he will re-learn to navigate it, he will not let a guy to whom he has spoken a grand total of two times ruin the routine of his life. No matter how gorgeous the guys’ eyes (and arms) are. 

Of course Phil can try as hard as he can, but life has also the peculiarity of being unpredictable and it can happen at any minutes, even in the middle of the lunch rush.

“Two daily specials, two BLTs, three eggs over easy with bacon and a burger with fries, no pickles!”

Melinda shouts “I still only got two hands!” 

“I’ll hire you someone when you promise not to scare them away.”

“It’s not my fault they are all incompetent!” 

The patrons are all used to the bantering and, Phil is sure, some of them comes just for the show of the two of them bickering. He has his back to the counter shouting the latest orders when the door chimes again. 

“I’ll be right with you. Have a seat at the counter, the booths are all full.”

He turns around with his notebook in hand and he is faced with the serene beauty of Natasha. Today her hair is down to her shoulders, a red blanket of curls that really makes her look like the Madonna Steve talked about.  
She looks straight at him and then turns on her stool, casting a look around the diner before standing up again and saying:

“Okay, just for the sake of stopping any future gossip. My full name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, I was born in Stalingrad, ex USSR, and I defected to the US in 1980 with the help of my friend Clint Barton. We are not spies, we were never spies. We met at the Olympics, became friends, and the rest it's, as they say, history. I hope this is enough to satisfy the curiosity.”

Some of the people look genuinely surprised, but no one is leaving or gossiping more than usual. Mrs Croswell, who always sits in the booth by the door and always orders the same cream of mushroom soup, even in the heat of summer, simply smiles and waves at Natasha. “Sweetheart, thanks, but that was not necessary, I mean, we are small town folks but we do watch the TV. It was twenty years ago, not two hundred. Now sit down, dear. Have a piece of pie, or the special, they are both good. And one of those days, come to my salon, those tresses of yours sure need a trim.”

Daisy is looking at Mrs Croswell with her mouth open and Phil can’t help but smile. These are his people, how did he think just for a minute that their reactions would be any different? Sure there will be some who will say “I never trusted them, I knew something was iffy”, but they will still go the store to get new ice skates for the kids at Christmas, or to buy new snow boots.

Natasha’s cheeks are dusted with pink, but she sits down with the regal grace of a queen and Phil pours her a cup of coffee. “Pie?”

“Yes, please.” And she smiles at him. 

Natasha waits until the end of the lunch rush and when the diner is almost empty stands up and runs a hand through her hair, a small grimace turning the bow of her lips sour. “Where that lady’s salon? I think she may be right”

 

Phil draws her a map on a napkin and hands it over to her. “Don’t tell her, but Cordelia is always right. She’s an amazing lady. She was a friend of my mum and I have had my haircut at her salon since I was five. Not that I need it as much now. But.. you know, she is right, no one care about the past.”

She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him and he corrects himself “Ok, some will still care, and some will say stupid things, but they will still shop at your place, and they will still say hi and they will still try to chat you up. People are the same everywhere, some good, some bad. Please, can you tell Clint as well? “

“And what type of person are you, Mr Coulson? Good or bad?”

“I will let you decide that. For now I can only say that, Lola’s is always open if you fancy a bite, some cheap gossip, me yelling at my friend Melinda and, above all, unwanted advice which will be provided by some of my patrons at any given time, about any given topic.”

This time her beautiful face is lit by a small smile and Phil can only reciprocate. 

“Food and unwanted advice, how can I resist? I will see you tomorrow Mr Coulson.”

“Phil, please.”

“Well Phil, I will be back tomorrow. But Clint is staying late at the shop tonight, and I think you should go and say hi later. Think about it.”

“ I will.”

Phil thinks about it all day.  
He thinks about seeing Clint again. About seeing those eyes again, and feeling that twist in his guts.  
He thinks about the risks. The days that may stretch ahead of him and the ones that may be if he goes and see Clint. Melinda just looks at him with her sharp gaze, but doesn’t say anything, she can read the language of fear on his face, because she has translated it on her own skin, with her own pain. So she keeps silent, her mute support valued and cherished.  
In the end is not a case of going or not going, is a case of trying, of opening up, of taking a chance. 

He walks down the street at dusk, the street lights blinking awake.  
He walks down the street and knocks at a door. 

Time to try again. 

* End of Part 1 *

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s notes:
> 
> This is the first part of a larger arc, but can be read on its own. The story is set in the year 2000 for the only reason that, for narrative purposes, Clint was 20 and Natasha was 18 in 1980. This will make them 40 and 38 respectively and Phil is 45. The rest of the the canon characters are their standard age, except for Daisy who is 19. The town of Crested Butte is a real town in Colorado and it looks beautiful. 
> 
> Panna = Cream in Italian  
> Nutella = Self explanatory  
> They are two labradors a cream and chocolate one (obviously). 
> 
>  
> 
> Red Lady = is the name that the local in Crested Butte give to Mount Emmons
> 
>  
> 
> Pop tart = snowboard maneuver consisting in airing from fakie to forward on a quarterpipe or halfpipe without rotation.
> 
>  
> 
> Cherry flip = Another name for the toe-loop jump.A toe-assisted jump that takes off from the back outside edge.


End file.
